


The things they said could restore me

by Builder



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Chicken Soup, Colds, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Gen, I seriously need more and better tags, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 06:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14563494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Matt's unbalanced by his cold.  The chicken soup doesn't help.





	The things they said could restore me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm obsessed with Daredevil rn. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @builder051

It takes Matt all of two seconds of being conscious to decide his sinuses hate him.  The ache is dull and heavy and too strong to be the result of sleeping with the window open.  It’s May.  Allergy season should be almost over.  The weather forecast has today’s temperatures set in the 70s.  So the open window shouldn’t be the cause of his chill, either.

Matt rolls onto his back and throws his arm over his eyes, as if that’s going to help anything.  The throb settles between his eyes, and mucous drips sickeningly down his throat.  There’s no getting around it.  He’s sick.

He still has 18 minutes until his alarm goes off, so Matt lies there, pretending like he might go back to sleep.  It’s impossible to relax, though, with the gunk in his nasal passages crackling every time he breathes.

When he does stand up, Matt’s dizzy.  He staggers into the bathroom, feeling drunk and embarrassed.  He splashes water on his face, then lets the faucet run and hangs his head over the basin.  Clouds of steam make his cheeks raw and pink.  Matt breathes deeply until he coughs.  Then he grips the edge of the counter and fights the urge to gag.

Once he’s in control and only marginally trembling, Matt swallows a dose of ibuprofen and a disgustingly mentholated cough drop.  It’s a shock to his system, and for a minute he’s lost in a world that stinks of eucalyptus.  Matt grounds himself with his palms pressed against the edges of the bathroom door frame until the mist starts to fade.  He’s running late now, and his eyes are watering.  But at least he can breathe.

Matt’s the last one to the office.   Foggy and Karen already elbow-deep in manila folders and morning coffee when he arrives.

“How nice of you to join us,” Foggy says, scraping some files across the conference table to clear a place for Matt.

“Good morning to you too,” Matt says.  Rasps.  He hasn’t warmed up his voice at all, and as a result, it barely exists.

“Whoa,” Karen says.  If Matt’s ears weren’t so clogged, he’d probably hear her eyebrows raising.  “How many packs did you smoke last night?”

Matt gives a raspy chuckle and almost chokes as his airway momentarily cuts off.  “Ha, I wish.”  The sentiment is there, even if the syntax is wrong.

Foggy’s a little more subtle.  “Want some coffee?  Or there’s herbal tea in the cabinet.”

More steam will probably do him good.  So will hydration.  But Matt’s fever and general lack of sensory perception is making him petulant, so he shakes his head.  He clenches his abs against the resultant wave of vertigo and sinks into his chair.

“Alright, maybe later.”  Foggy flips through some more files.  Even though he has no input to base it on, Matt’s sure Foggy’s surreptitiously staring at him.

He doesn’t know why they’re dancing around it.  Matt doesn’t feel well.  It’s obvious.  But misplaced self-preservation keeps him from putting hoarse voice to it.  Foggy’s probably just following his lead without realizing how annoying it is.

Karen drums her fingers against the side of her coffee mug, and Matt can hear it just well enough to tell she has the cracked one.  They should throw it away, there are plenty of others in the cabinet over the sink.  But for now he grits his teeth and listens to the out-of-tune percussion, wondering how long he’s going to be able to stand this headache.

He gets until noon before it starts to be too much.  Karen comes back from a food run with something Matt can actually smell through his congestion.  It’s all garlic and grease, and if Matt sits for more than a minute in the cloud of it, he’s going to throw up.  The crinkling of the bag from across the room is enough to turn his stomach.

Matt shoves his glasses onto his face and reaches for his cane and briefcase.  He stops at Foggy’s desk to say something before he bolts out the door, but the scent of gyro and French fries is melting his brain.

“Going home for lunch?” Foggy offers.  “Or just…going home.”

“Um.  Yeah.”  Matt wipes his nose on his sleeve, then holds his cuff there.

“Want me to call you later?  Or bring by some chicken soup?”

So they’re past pretenses.  Matt can’t bring himself to care, but it does make it easier to pull off a half-assed shrug and a head-shake while trying not to gag.  Shooting pains lance up Matt’s jaw, and he isn’t sure if his head or his stomach is ultimately the culprit.

“Ok.  See ya,” Foggy says.

Outside isn’t a lot better for Matt, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s choking.  The gunk in his sinuses makes it impossible to pull in a deep breath, but he can still walk home with little issue, albeit a lot of annoyance.

Matt climbs the stairs to the apartment and sheds his suit jacket before he gets to the bedroom.  He wonders why he was so eager to take it off, though, because now he’s freezing.  Oh, well.  Fevers are stupid.

He falls into bed without thinking, and it’s only after he gets comfortable that he remembers he’s due for another dose of ibuprofen.  Later, Matt promises himself.  He’ll get some later.  He pulls the sheets up to his chin and lets his overheated body become self-sufficient radiator, warming the mattress and relaxing his tense muscles.  He drops his glasses on his bedside table and shuts his eyes.

***

Matt wakes up to the sound of Foggy knocking on his door.  After a split second of disoriented panic, he remembers how he left the office without correcting Foggy’s false hope.  Matt sighs and yanks sweats over his boxers, then shuffles across the apartment to let Foggy in.

“Hey,” Matt croaks.  His voice catches in his throat, and he covers his mouth to hack.  It would serve Foggy right to be sprayed with germs and spit, though.  Matt’s not much happier to be awake this time around.

“Dude.  You look beat.”  Foggy’s tone is direct.  Not unkind, but Matt’s feeling raw and sensitive.

“Yeah, well…”  He pauses as a freight train echoes through his throbbing skull.

“I brought soup.”  The takeout bag ripples in Foggy’s hand, and Matt can smell it now.  Salty, savory.  A lot milder than Karen’s Greek food at lunch.  Matt’s nasal passages still have PTSD from that.

He’s hungry, though.  Somewhere in its haze of inflammation, his body is realizing that it’s evening and he hasn’t had breakfast yet.  “Thanks,” Matt says, hating how his throat gums up on the consonants.

“Here, let me make you a bowl.”  Foggy steps inside before Matt invites him, but that’s ok.  The pressure in Matt’s head spikes as he hacks into his elbow, and he’s a little unbalanced as he steps aside to let Foggy pass him on his way to the kitchen.

Matt detours to the bathroom to swallow some more painkillers.  He drinks a glass of water while holding his hand to his forehead, inexpertly gauging his own fever.  He knows he has one, he just isn’t sure how high it is.  He’s still pretty lucid, though.  He doubts it’s much to worry about.

Matt steps back into the kitchen feeling slightly worse than he had upon waking up.  He’s still groggy, and he can feel the coated tablets fizzing in his stomach.  He gets a mental image of Mentos and coke, and Matt hopes he can avoid that kind of a reaction.

“There you go,” Foggy says, setting a bowl of steaming soup on the counter.  A little slops over the edge, and Matt smells a gust of takeout napkin along with the meaty scent of the soup.  His senses are still stunted, but Matt can tell it’s good stuff.  Or at least decent.  Café soup.  Which is a step up from the canned variety.  A step down from Whole Foods.

“Thanks,” Matt mutters.  He picks up the spoon and tries to put on a brave face.  Now that it’s in front of him, he doesn’t want any.  He’s two clicks away from outright nausea.  Matt realizes how ridiculous he looks, how insulting he’s being to Foggy’s kindness, but he has no control over the flipping in his stomach.

“Is it ok?”  Foggy’s trying not to sound like he’s looking for validation, but he is.  Matt can tell.  And he feels bad for denying it to him.

“Mm-hm.”  It’s the best Matt can manage as a new and more disgusting kind of discomfort crawls up his throat.

“No, it’s not.  What’s wrong?”  Foggy’s having none of it.

Matt’s not either.  “Sorry, Fog.”  He gets to his feet, holding onto a shred of hope that changing position will neutralize the rising urge to be sick.

It doesn’t.  If anything it makes it worse.  Matt swallows convulsively.  “I just…I don’t…”  He makes a break for the kitchen sink, because god knows he’s not going to make it to the bathroom in time.

“Whoa, ok.”  Foggy jumps backward out of Matt’s way, then hovers awkwardly as he retches.  “Ok…”  He pats Matt on the back a couple times, then seems to decide it’s too close.  Through his dry heaves, Matt can hear him pouring the soup back into its waxed cardboard container.

He finally surfaces, wiping dregs of mucous on the back of his hand.  “You alright, Matt?” Foggy asks, hovering again.

“Mm.  Yeah.”  His voice has dropped another octave.  He’ll be crumbling boulders if it goes any lower.  But it’ll probably disappear entirely first.

“You sure?”  Foggy hesitates.  “I mean, I know you probably just have a bad cold or something, but I worry about you sometimes, dude.  You have to take care of yourself.  Or at least let someone else do it for you.”  He laughs, maybe a little uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” Matt says automatically.

“Hey, no.  Don’t apologize.  That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” Matt rasps.  “I’m still…  I know you didn’t want to see that.”

“I really didn’t,” Foggy agrees.  “But you’ve done it before.  You were drunk, so I don’t know if you remember, but I do.”  He laughs again.  Genuinely.  “I think I’m immune.”

Matt does recollect the experience.  Cheap dorm pizza and tequila are two things he’s never consuming again, let alone mixing.  The thought still makes him want to gag.  “Oh, I remember,” he says.  “I’m still avoiding margaritas, just for you.”

“Well, I hope I haven’t made you want to avoid chicken noodle,” Foggy says.  “Because I’m going to heat that up for you again.  Later.”

Matt doesn’t want to think about food again in his life, but he nods.  “Ok.”  A brief pause.  “Thanks, Fog.  I really appreciate it.”

“No problem, Matt.  To be honest?  You kind of need me.”

“Yeah, maybe I kind of do.”


End file.
